


page six

by vuas



Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: And I’m only ten years late!, Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, Episode 7 limo: the fuckening, F/M, Hate Sex, Light Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Unrequited Love, Verbal Humiliation, Virginity, but requited sex?, don’t read too much into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27210427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuas/pseuds/vuas
Summary: “Those stockings are Gucci, you animal,” she snaps, pearl necklace bouncing on her tits while she squirms in his lap. Her hands curl into fists at his lapel so tight she must be imagining they’re around his throat.“Last season,” he yanks at her hair with a smirk.
Relationships: Chuck Bass/Blair Waldorf
Comments: 38
Kudos: 299





	page six

**Author's Note:**

> I tripped and fell into this oops

As a rule, Chuck doesn’t fuck virgins.

They’re needy. Chuck isn’t a fulfiller of needs. He’s an empty maw of greed, and he eats those girls alive; the ones expecting it on gentle terms, blurred pink at the edges like old Hollywood films. He is seventeen and unbroken with the world at his fingertips, and can’t imagine wanting to  _ give _ when he could instead take.

It's distasteful then: the way he feels about her little pleated skirts and bows, coiffed hair and pearl earrings. Sticky pink lip gloss. A perfume of Dior and cut diamonds, sickly clean and perfect, untouched by earthly sin. Blair is a sanitized department store angel, bubbly like the champagne that lingered in his mouth when he kissed her for the first time. Appropriate. Luxurious. Makes his head spin.

He hates it, the way someone who doesn’t really know what heartbreak is can feel hatred. Hates it so much that the urge to mess her up has him clenching his teeth when she tosses her curls over her shoulder, looking up at him with doe-eyes practiced in the mirror so many times they fall flat. He wants to smear her makeup with spit, tear her stockings and wrinkle Blair up irrevocably; until her blush isn’t just from an artful swipe of pigmented powder and her hair tousled into the mess of a personal fucktoy and not a Manhattan page-six socialite.

God  _ knows _ Nate won’t.

Chuck is unfamiliar with the concept of unrequited desire. It burns in his throat like a swallowed blade, terrorizing him with every glance at her skinny grape-diet thighs in those lacy tights, fooling everyone into thinking she’s an empty doll-thing playing dress up. See, Blair is like tempered glass. One needle prick of fury and she shatters. Everyone calls her icy. Frigid bitch in quiet rooms if they’re brave. Chuck knows better. It’s so goddamned easy to rile her up, like a kitten who’s just learned to spit. Little cracks in the seam of her starched and pressed masquerade. Blair has a human heart, and her veins run with hot blood, not Swarovski crystal.

So that makes Blair an actress. One who deserves an award for pretending to be one of those strawberry pink virgins expecting flowers and fireworks. Really, she’s begging for someone to demand her submission, her supplication. Pull her silky hair until she bends. He can tell; how she presses on bruises and inflicts paper cuts, searching for someone to finally carry her off her pedestal. Must be tired, poor thing, of being so goddamned  _ clean. _

Some would say that the people living between 72nd and 96th haven’t ever had to work a day in their lives. They’re right—until he gets his hands on her. Her pupils are blown out in the dark of the limo, streetlights sparking across her chubby cheeks as they hurtle towards his apartment. She watches him with delight, that first time he shows her he doesn’t give a shit she’s _ Blair Waldorf, _ because he’s going to rip her designer stockings to shreds just because he wants to. Her little gasp plays indignant when the sound of tearing fabric fills the cab.

“Those are  _ Gucci,  _ you animal,” she snaps, pearl necklace bouncing on her tits while she squirms in his lap. Her hands curl into fists at his lapel so tight she must be imagining they’re around his throat.

“Last season,” he yanks at her hair, skewing the artful bow haphazardly into her dark curls, ribbon wilting and creased. The movement arches her neck up, and  _ still _ Blair is in a position to look down at him. Christ. He plans to fuck that haughty little expression off her face. 

“Fuck you,” she squints, looking like a martyr, so  _ exhausted _ by him with a big roll of eyes. Chuck recognizes it for what it really is: another dare.  _ Make me. Show me you want it that bad.  _

“Only if you ask politely.” His thumb brushes her lips, smearing gloss down her skin until it glitters pink at her jaw. It’s pearlescent, like a man’s come. Which reminds him—

“You wouldn’t be acting like a brat if Nate had fucked it out of you. Tell me, did he touch you?”

She doesn’t blush, but he feels her thighs quiver astride his own. “No. I didn't try again after the last disaster. You know; you were there.” Her voice is a little surly at being caught out, no doubt still seething at not getting her way for once. 

“Don’t pout,” he pulls her down by the neck, placing a mocking kiss upon her forehead. “It makes you far too appealing.”

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

Her sentence is cut off with a little squeak when his hand boldly probes between her legs, pressing against the contour of her underwear. She’s damp and sticky, his fingertips gleaming when he pulls them out from under her slip. “Blair,” he  _ tsks. “ _ You’re wet from just  _ that?”  _ He pretends it was a peck on the cheek rather than the lap-sitting soft-moan hair-pulling feast they’d just attended for the past fifteen minutes, his hands pawing roughly at her body beneath that stupid barrier of a dress.

Her face pinches with embarrassment, absolutely lovely. “Don’t you dare think it has anything to do with you,” she aims for withering Medusa, but he traces a teasing line across the cotton seam that makes her hiccup in the middle of her taunt, rather spoiling the effect.

“Actually,” he pushes a finger up, rubbing the fabric into her slick skin gently enough to make her shudder. “I think it has a whole lot to do with me. Blair Waldorf, you need to come, don’t you?”

She glowers, painted nails digging in when she grabs him by the wrist. “Chuck Bass, I know you’re clinically incapable of shutting up, but could you try for just one moment?”

“Well,” he drawls, “-normally I would, Princess.” He hooks a finger into the fabric, pulling it down her hips, enough to expose her to his greedy eyes. “But  _ this _ ,” he dips a finger along the soft seam of her center, finding more slick waiting for him. “Tells me you like it when I talk, no?”

Blair opens her mouth to retort but he doesn’t like that one bit—instead he pushes a finger inside of her wanting body, smiling as her eyebrows furrow with a little huff, pink lips parted in surprise. She’s warm and wet as he makes room for himself in her cunt, curling and pressing with shallow movements until he finds one that makes her grasp his shoulders so tight the tailored seams nearly rip. 

“Shit,” Blair sways forward, eyes glazed with newly-acquainted pleasures. The little harlot arches her back for a  _ single finger _ in her pussy. Christ, Nate must be the stupidest man to walk the Upper East Side.

“Language, Miss Waldorf.”

“S-sor—” Blair catches herself at the last second, mouth snapping shut like she’s tasted off-brand caviar. It takes everything in him to suppress a grin, but she must see a flicker of it on his mouth; her spine tenses with a perceived slight. “Is that really all you’re going to do? You think a stone’s throw from groping is enough to get me off?”

“Oh god no,” he pushes in a second finger as slowly as he can, watching the stretch burn across her face. “You’re so tight, darling. This is about making sure you can take my entire cock.”

Her nose wrinkles even as she fucks herself down to the knuckle. “It can’t be that big. You compensate too much.”

Chuck pulls her closer, until her tits are crushed up against his chest and she buries her face into his shoulder, muffling a moan. “Wanna bet?” He murmurs into her ear, nosing a glittering earring. “I’ll warn you, I’m feeling lucky. And you don’t strike me as a gambler.”

“Will you just get  _ on _ with it?” she pants, hands squeezing between them for his fly. “Instead of monologuing like a Bond villain?”

“Then ask,” he licks her neck, tasting perfume and lingering smoke from the club. “And use those manners you value so much.”

She sits back, enough to go nose to nose with him. He can count every sun-kissed freckle on her face, each sculpted eyelash, those big doe-eyes enormous. Chuck forgets himself for a moment, steady rhythm faltering between her legs. It should be illegal to look like Blair Waldorf, fragile pretty thing she is. He hates how badly the urge aches within him to whisk her up to his bedroom and never let her out of sight again, save everyone a lot of trouble.

Her hand grabs his tie, yanking him forward so she can whisper the next words against his lips. “Chuck Bass, will you fuck me,  _ please _ ?” She blinks innocently at him, tongue darting out playfully at his mouth. It’s sweet. Girlish, in a particular way that she must know makes his dick twitch.

What a fucking  _ act, _ the way she pleads like she’s never once gotten what she wanted from him _. _ He’d fall for it every time.

He tears her stocking to bits, shoving the fabric of her slip up to her tiny waist and pinning it there, stroking her soft belly with a thumb. She makes nice noises, he realizes. They’re still a little quiet in her throat, unpracticed, endearingly natural. He is overwhelmed with the need to bottle them up, keep it all for his own. 

He always wants what he can’t have.

“Tell me,” his thumb pets her clit, studying her face as pleasure blooms. He wonders if Nate ever got her off like this. He wonders if she’s wet Nate’s thigh with her slick, huffy and embarrassed about doing something so crass, so common like grind herself to orgasm on her boyfriend’s leg.

“What do you want?” She whines, eagerly riding his fingers now, slender hips finding a rhythm that would put the girls at Victrola to shame.

“You sure you haven’t done this before?” He teases, spreading himself out in the backseat just to watch. “Christ, Blair—I bet you have a cute little pink dildo in your nightstand you shove up that tiny-“

Her manicured hand slaps over his mouth accompanied by a nearly feral growl, ring digging into his upper lip. “Don’t be a— _ oh— _ bastard.” She manages, head tossing her glossy curls back. Must be close. 

He pulls his hand out of her cunt with a wet sucking sound that has her blushing scarlet; he snatches her jaw, sticky fingertips digging into her cheek, forcing her to look at him. He nearly whistles—must be humiliating to have your makeup ruined by your own juices. “But you like it, darling,” he coos, eyes drawn to her furious little deprived mouth. “This is what you wanted, remember?”

“If you don’t figure out how to shut up, I’m liable to change my mind, you leech,” she sneers. “The champagne is wearing off.”

He grabs her around the middle and all but shoves her face down into the buttery-leather seat; she’s startled into submission when his hand tightens in her hair, keeping her in place as he grasps his fly. “You fucking love this, Blair,” he hissess, kneeling behind her, spreading her thighs wider. “Tell me. And I’ll fuck you the way you want.”

Her panting is erratic; his eyes skim the modest curves of her body as she pulls in air. There’s a gleam between her legs, practically dripping: they’ve barely been in this car for a quarter hour. Nate is stupid, he sighs. So inconceivably stupid. 

“I love it,” she mumbles, burying her face into her elbow, refusing to give him more—but that’s fine. He can practically taste it in the air; the thick, undeniable sweetness of dominion. His, in particular, over all her precious pearls and hair bows.

“That’s not so bad, is it?” He smugly pushes the tip of his cock inside, her hole happily pulling him in. “No rose petals or candles, I’m afraid. I can still give you sweet nothings, a consolation, hm? Let me guess,” he shallowly thrusts, watching his cock pry her open, swallow his dick to the base, her spine tense when he manages the full length. “— _Good_ girl.”

She whimpers and clenches so tight his eyes roll back; French lessons and French wines flutter in memory.  _ La petite mort. Little death,  _ they called it. Implied rebirth, as if a climax could paint you anew, fully changed on the other end of sex. He’d always thought the sentiment was for the woman; they were the ones who had to bend over and take it, make room for the man within themselves. That was wrong of him—Blair’s cunt is a  _ transformation _ .

This whole night he’s been contemplating Nate’s stupidity when it should have been his own.

“Chuck,” she hiccups pathetically, entire body shivering. “I—”

“It’s okay,” he nuzzles between her shoulder blades. “Ready?”

All it takes is a careful, bracing nod from his sweet girl before he sets about fucking her for the first time. Each thrust is easier than the last; as he suspected, she’s a natural talent, eager to learn how to take a cock. Her panting fogs the windows, fingers clawing Italian leather, her jewelry clinking with each thrust. He watches her perky little tits, half pulled out of her bra, bouncing in the reflection of the tinted window. It’s glorious, almost as nice as the way her ass moves when his hips slam deep.

She cries his name; prays a little, maybe, especially when he pushes a hand on her back, leaning into it and pinning her beneath him. It’s the right angle, if all the uncontrollable jerking she succumbed to was any indication. Her reaction causes a peculiar fluttering in his chest, one he struggles to identify as he fucks her into the backseat. 

See, Chuck doesn’t usually go so far as to make sure a girl comes. It’s so much  _ work,  _ usually.  _ Oh, could you do that softer? More to the left? No, counterclockwise.  _ Wretched. Exhausting.

He hates to compromise strict Bass values, but he’ll make a hell of an exception for Blair.

Sighing, he probes a hand between her legs, spreading her as wide as she’ll go. Her clit is slippery, swollen already:  _ nothing  _ prepares him for the broken wail she makes when he finds it.

“Chuck,” she hisses, in a voice that sounds like she’s thinking about stabbing him with a Louboutin if he doesn’t comply. “Do that again.”

“Oh? Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit bossy?” He punctuates the tease with a hard thrust—however Chuck fears death a little, so he does just as she requested before she can kill him, circling her clit on each stroke. It’s a blessing to watch her squirm and kick her feet, enticingly close to her first orgasm with  _ him. _

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?”

“Chuck, don’t.” Her eyes flash over her boney shoulder; her makeup is a mess, eyeshadow melting to her cheek. He’s never seen her like that before. It’s a curious thing, a Blair unarmed, stripped bare.

“You’re going to,” he leans over so he can breathe into her ear, press her down with the bulk of his body. “And  _ I’m _ going to come. Inside your prim little pussy.” He knows she takes the pill—seen the packet in her purse, washed down with Perrier at brunch. Besides, the allure of marking up Waldorf with his own spend is priceless. “You’re going to stink of me. I’m gonna come so deep, it’ll drip out of you for days. And everyone’s gonna see you in those little skirts and bows and think  _ how cute, _ but I’m gonna know, Blair. I’m gonna know what you look like when someone forces an orgasm out of you. Be a good girl and come like I said, Princess.”

She chokes on it beautifully; damp lashes blinking at him in the dark as she shudders through her climax with a soft cry. Everything about her goes pliant and warm, cunt fluttering, squeezing his cock like a vice. His spend is thick, painting her insides over and over until it spills out onto the seat.

He grunts, pulling out and turning her over to see the mess he’s made: hair tangled, brow beading sweat, lipgloss smeared everywhere but her mouth. Her cunt is swollen and red, used up. She looks rather dazed, like someone’s told her the black Amex is maxed out. Impossibly beautiful and completely unkempt.

He adores it. 

The driver clears his throat; Chuck glances out the window to see the door of his apartment building waiting, brick stretching to the sky.

“You should come up,” he turns back to her. “Shower. Sleep in my bed. I’ll have them bring up one of those chocolate cakes you like.”

Blair swallows, looking him up and down: it occurs to him he probably looks equally disheveled. “We have school tomorrow,” she whispers, throat raw.

“But tonight you said you’re mine,” he leans in, kissing away her pout. “So prove it. You can wear my coat in—I uh…ripped the dress.” He gestures vaguely to her hip, praying the offending item is from Bergdorfs and not vintage runway. At least then he can buy her a replacement.

She scowls, twisting to see the mangled hem. “Chuck Bass, you  _ ass!” _

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I know what ur thinking: vuas? Are you ok? This show is from ten years ago why are you writing smut fic for it? Are you a time traveler from 2007??
> 
> And to that I say: its a secret I’ll never tell


End file.
